Nothing You Can See That Isn't Shown
by EmitTime
Summary: Arthur sings "All You Need Is Love" like he's never quite believed it. Alfred just wants to put a real smile back on both of their faces – and hear that British accent some more. USUK. Not a song-fic in the usual sense.


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**Nothing You Can See That Isn't Shown**

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><p>He loves it when Arthur sings.<p>

Sometimes, it's the only way Alfred knows what Arthur is feeling. For all his great literary skills, the older nation is awkward as hell when it comes to talking about personal matters.

But he can _sing_.

He belts out rock songs, he wails along with punk lyrics as if he were a rebellious teenager and not a thousand-something-year-old former Empire. He'll tip his head back, humming along to folk tunes reminiscent of ages long past and struggles ever timeless. Rarest of all, when he thinks no one is watching, his eyes soften and he confesses that which he too often hides through the softest of love songs, the most gentle melodies strung along from heart and soul.

Alfred stops and listens whenever he's presented the opportunity, fascinated by this side of England which, although hardly secret, is somehow undeniably sacred. Arthur absolutely enjoys his musical abilities, Alfred knows that. What he wonders at times is whether or not Arthur realizes just how transparent he is when he follows a tune. It's so easy to pick up on his mood, and Kiku would certainly be proud of America if he knew how good he'd gotten at _reading the atmosphere_ when it comes down to this.

_This _being he and England alone, casual and almost domestic on a Sunday morning. Recently, they've made a secret schedule between them which pledges that, unless dire emergencies spell otherwise, they will spend one weekend every other month together.

It's hardly enough time, in Alfred's personal opinion, but it's enough to keep their Special Relationship afloat and sailing strong, even from opposite sides of "the pond".

Something Alfred has learned within the past several years is that Arthur is not particularly a morning person on weekends, least of all on Sundays. Therefore, it was no surprise when he emerged from Alfred's bedroom at half-past eleven, casually dressed and hair no neater than Alfred's own. Blearily he mumbled, "Good morning."

Grinning, Alfred swung his legs off the sofa to make room for him. "Just in time for it!" He replied cheerily, and was rewarded by an eye-roll followed by a fond, poorly-hidden smile.

When Arthur went to pop his favorite Beatles CD into Alfred's stereo set, America sat up a little straighter.

"Do you mind, Al?"

"Nope, go ahead!" There was nothing good on TV anyway, and even America could only take so much of the news at one time.

He watched England putter unhurriedly to the kitchen as the first track ascended into a familiar medley of tones. Still more familiar was Arthur's voice, which he absentmindedly allowed to carry through the air while he began to prepare his afternoon tea. Alfred could see the back of his tousled, sandy-blonde hair as he rummaged about the cabinets for the tea he'd taken to squirreling away whenever he came over.

Alfred had always thought Arthur has a pretty voice, _especially_ _when he wasn't cursing or yelling or grumbling about something_. Even at meetings, when Arthur was apt to drone on and on in that serious manner that some of his citizens possess, it didn't bore Alfred as much as he claimed it did. Not when he can block out the words themselves and just concentrate on _that voice_, the one that's been in his memory, his thoughts, his dreams for so long now.

Arthur's voice is soothing in a strange sort of way, and whenever Alfred hears it, there is a ridiculous reassurance somewhere within him that everything is going to be alright – if not today, then someday. He still looks up to the island nation, certainly admires him. Perhaps that's why he's still somewhat surprised in the moments when he realizes that for all his pride and talk, Arthur doesn't always admire himself.

"It's easy." England was humming to himself as he poured water from the tea kettle. That would be another thing he'd crammed into America's kitchen to use at his leisure.

His belongings were slowly finding their way to Alfred's place every time he flew over for a visit. It was a phenomenon that Arthur himself seemed to studiously ignore, so Alfred graciously accepted it. After all, it was so difficult to find good tea around his place -_ not that he'd know_, but plenty of British people seemed to think it was true. A better reason for the American was that he could tolerate whatever England wanted to bring, if it meant he would be staying a while. As long as he didn't actually _cook_, of course. Alfred loved the island nation, but he was a hero, not a man with a death wish.

"All you need is love, love. Love is all you need." The words drifted out upon a halfhearted sigh as the click of a spoon being stirred signaled that Arthur had found the sugar.

Alfred frowned. Something about the older nation wasn't right today. He sounded melancholy, and that just wouldn't do on their date weekend! Or any weekend, for that matter, although Alfred knew and was beginning to accept just how easy it was for the other man to slip into his moods. He didn't expect him to be upbeat all the time, but neither could he sense a reason for such a cheerless reaction.

"Love, love, love..." England repeated dutifully in that – _delightful_ – accent of his, as if the noun truly was an abstract one, something he didn't quite believe in. But that couldn't be right, could it? England believed in all kinds of things. He believed in Flying Mint Bunny, and unicorns, faeries and wizards and dragons.

_But that's only one side of him_, Alfred reminded himself. There was another side of England which was just as jaded as the color in his eyes. That side was skeptical, cynical, and maybe it didn't believe in love as much as Alfred had cajoled himself into thinking.

"You okay, dude?" He asked as Arthur sat down beside him at last, with a store-bought scone and his steaming cup of tea.

"Of course, perfectly peachy." Those emerald peeked at him almost shyly from underneath sandy-blonde bangs as England sipped tentatively at the tea. Gosh, either all his taste buds were dead or he was very accustomed to hot beverages. Probably both, considering his lifestyle.

Arthur looked like he was going to say something else, but seemed to think better of it. He turned his attention to the television and wrinkled his nose at the muted news channel, tactically abbreviated headlines and serious, silent clips running across the screen.

"I'm just tired." He added softly, steeling his gaze at the images and words as if he could turn world events around simply by the force of his glare.

And Alfred had one of his small, rare epiphanies, that perhaps it wasn't love Arthur was doubting, but rather people themselves.

It was something all nations struggled with, existing lifetime after lifetime to see – so much. For every amazing progress, every step forward, there was also a stab in the back occurring somewhere in the world. Nations had to distance themselves from the world just as much as they worked to protect it. There was a danger in getting too close, feeling too much – such a fine line between directing the current and being swept away to drown within it.

Arthur, sharp and wise as he was, certainly knew all about time and how it hurts and heals in turns. Even so, Alfred knew his former mentor well enough to guess that Arthur also probably took too much to heart and let it all weigh there like a heavy burden, piling up every crushing feeling and wrenching a lock shut upon them as he went about the gargantuan task of _being_ the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

Alfred knew, because it was something he'd done as well. He understood that particular brand of tiredness, the kind that no sleep would sooth, nor dawn resolve. The uneasy thought of Arthur feeling that way now settled over him with pinpricks of anxiety.

Straightening Texas upon his nose, he nodded slightly to himself.

Alfred wasn't a hero for nothing, and he didn't plan to sit back and _do_ nothing. He had all day to lighten Arthur's heart!

As the green-eyed man went about obliviously nibbling on his late breakfast, gears were grinding in America's head. He thought he had the perfect idea to make both of them happy... After all, what better way to take England's attention off the world than to focus it on_ Alfred himself_?

It was foolproof, just like all his plans!

**.x.x.x.**

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><p>They were sitting back, doing nothing as near as Arthur could tell. It was almost too quiet considering Alfred's very nature, and sure enough...<p>

"Hey, Iggy, what's this word right here?"

"What?" England adjusted his reading glasses and sighed, setting his book of poetry down on the arm of the sofa. America had forbidden him to do paperwork during _their_ weekend, so they had compromised by doing some leisure reading together. Although he'd initially put up a short debate about the importance of duty and the need for productivity, Arthur was secretly grateful for the untroubled time to escape from his usual stress and recharge.

Leisure reading with Alfred had actually proved to be quite lovely, taking into account that somewhere along the line, Alfred's head had wound up nestled upon a pillow which just so happened to be situated in England's lap. Pale, graceful fingers carded through the honey-blonde locks, a relaxing motion for both men.

Now, Arthur frowned in confusion as he peered down at the word Alfred was pointing to, which was contained in some sort of mystery novel."Hm. Do you need new glasses or something?"

"Dude, no way!" Alfred smiled, a hint of a Southern accent sashaying into his answer. "Texas is just fine!"

"Then I don't understand. You should be able to read it."

"But what's it say?" America insisted.

"I don't know what you're playing at." Rolling his eyes, Arthur gave the barest hint of an exasperated sigh. "Love."

"It's what?"

"It says love." Gently sweeping the hair back from Alfred's face without disturbing Nantucket, the island nation shook his head. "You can't hear now, then? Is that it?" He teased without any true sting.

"What's it mean?" America asked innocently, just to hear him say it again in that accent which, even when delivered snappily, was like silk to his ears.

Glancing from the black-and-white text to the superpower nation and back again, England shook his head. A hint of concern entered his tone. "What, love? Alfred - you know what love means, come now."

"Say it again."

Clearly not half as amused as his companion, England narrowed his eyes, feeling quite played and unsure as how to stop it. "Love."

"Yes?" Ocean-blue eyes swam with twinkling mirth and eagerness. "Sorry, one more time, please?"

"Love!" Arthur cried in exasperation. "Love, Alfred, love!" He sputtered, withdrawing his hand from Alfred's hair to waggle his index finger at him. "Now why on earth are you asking me these silly questions?"

Sitting up, the taller man grinned cheekily. "Well, I thought it'd be cool - " _More like hot, _" - to hear you say 'love' with your accent. Y'know, like in the tv shows and stuff? And... I wanted also to tell you that I um, that you know that..." Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling sheepish. What if he irritated Arthur more instead of making him happy? It had been known to happen in the past. "You know that I love you, right?"

Slowly, Arthur's expression smoothed out. He tilted his head slightly, a corner of his lip quirking up in bemusement.

Alfred rushed on before the other man could say anything, wanting to get all his thoughts out before Arthur responded. His words stumbled from his tongue, fresh and messy and sincerely raw. "And when you were singing earlier, you sounded almost sad, and I worried. Artie, you still believe in love, don't you?"

England opened and closed his mouth several times. A dusty blush draped itself over his cheeks, due either to touched embarrassment, sheer annoyance, or a cloying mix between the two.

"What kind of idiotic - " He shook his head as soon as he saw Alfred's face begin to fall, and tried again. "Of course I still believe in – I love _you_, for goodness sake! Doesn't that count for something?"

"A lot!" Alfred agreed. And he'd known that, he really had. It was just that... "I don't like it when you're so... You sounded almost defeated, earlier." His hands came to rest on Arthur's arms, as if he could hold him upright and in place all at once. "I wanted to be sure you know that you're not. That _we're_ not."

Something in England's eyes softened immensely, even as a smirk twisted across his lips. "Defeated? Who the devil do you think I am, Alfred? Of course I'm not defeated!"

He lowered his eyes momentarily, before meeting America's gaze with renewed vigor. "Tired, yes. Disheartened, perhaps. But that doesn't mean that I will give up on love, or you, or this world. I'm not giving up on anything. I live to put up a fight and I'm not going to stop anytime soon. And I trust that you won't, either."

Placing a hand over the younger nation's heart, Arthur leaned in close and brushed his lips across the man's cheek. "I'm sorry for this morning. Sometimes I must admit that my thoughts get the better of me. You understand, don't you?"

Of course he did. Maybe Alfred had worried over nothing himself, maybe it was as that decades-old song written by a couple of starry-eyed performers said. All they needed was love, but love wasn't all there was to the world. There were things that got in the way, things that robbed and cheated and beat down hearts that were trying their best.

Then Arthur tugged him closer by the front of his t-shirt for a sweet, encompassing kiss that conveyed apologies, affection and gratefulness all at once, and Alfred's next thought – his _last _coherent thought for the next few minutes – was that maybe those other things didn't matter so much because _love was definitely in there._

He could feel Arthur begin to smile into the kiss, and it made butterflies in his stomach flutter, an elated satisfaction that was almost like a natural high. When he was finally released, a parting peck placed at the corner of his mouth, the sound of England's soft chuckle met his ears.

"By the way, the use of that pet name at my place is more of a regional thing these days. We prefer 'babe' or 'darling' now, on the whole. Young people taking over the language and all that." England shook his head slyly, crooning softly in a tone which had taken on the distinct likeness of Liverpool. "I didn't believe Francis when he told me you were personally becoming an Anglophile... But you should have come right out and told me, luv."

Alfred absolutely didn't come anywhere close to squealing, because that would have been a _very_ un-hero-like thing to do, but he did feel the grin that was threatening to split his face in two. "Yeah? Well, now you know, babe." He drawled, relishing in the renewed blush which deepened across Arthur's cheeks and down his neck.

"You bloody...charming idiot... I do hope you have the decency to - to realize that these terms of endearment _cannot_ be uttered around the others." Arthur stammered.

"Whatever you say, babe!"

"Alfred F. Jones!"

Of course Alfred knows that Arthur loves him, that Arthur loves more people than he would like to let on. He also knows that sometimes, Arthur just needs to be shown that people love him back.

Everyone needs that, really. It's a huge part of what keeps the world going, and Alfred is more than happy to do his part.

He'll make sure that Arthur sees the progress, the love in the world, instead of getting bogged down with all those other things.

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><p><strong>.x.x.x.<strong>

_End_

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><p><strong>AN: Ahhh I don't even know. I feel like perhaps I should apologize. Every time I write America, things get way too sappy.<strong>

**I meant for this to be a standalone, but it can also be read in connection to my other oneshot, You've Got That Something.**

**I may end up writing a small series of Beatles-inspired USUK, so uh... Help!**


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